When PR superstar Jessica Marlowe is tasked with making America fall in love with space exploration, she knows exactly what to do:  find some smokin’ hot astronaut eye-candy and make him NASA's poster boy.  When she meets Commander Deke Stockard, the shiver down her spine tells her she's found her man.
     Consumed with the safety of the upcoming shuttle launch, Deke has zero interest in being part of a lame media blitz--but orders can't be ignored. He also can’t ignore the way Jessica's sexy smile and single-minded determination throw his life into a tailspin....and ignite an undeniable attraction.
     But when the next launch becomes a ticking time bomb that could spell the end for NASA, passion and courage won't be enough to reach the stars. Deke and Jessica will have to work together, and hope they both have space in their hearts...for love.

     From the front row, a young woman rose, turned to the audience, and flashed a mega-watt smile to get their attention.
     She certainly got Deke’s. Holy hell, after staring at frayed wires and the inside of a space shuttle exhaust all day, this girl was a vacation for the eyes. And he took it.
     He drank in every inch from her deep brown hair twisted neatly in something his sister would call an up-do, all the way down a pair of high heels that might be hell to wear but were pure heaven to watch. In between was a whole lot of nice curves and long legs.
     She stood straight and confident, as close to attention as a civilian could manage, clearing her throat before she smiled again. This time, it hit him right in the gut. He couldn’t help it. He smiled back even though he knew she probably wouldn’t notice him among her rapt audience of nearly thirty people.
     He watched her take a deep breath and smooth a stray hair over her neck. Cute. She was nervous under all that poise. He crossed his arms and settled back into his spot on the wall. Maybe he’d give her fifteen minutes.
     “Ladies and gentlemen. NASA is in trouble.” She clicked a button on the laptop and the screen filled with reprints of negative articles from the New York Times and the Washington Post that appeared fifty times their original size. Brutal headlines, all reinforcing her point that outside of Cape Canaveral and Houston, most of the world didn’t give a hoot about the space station and thought the whole shuttle program was a waste of precious tax dollars.
     “The fact is, very few Americans know that we have a space station up and manned and even fewer could tell you what it does.” She let a laser pointer illuminate a particularly nasty quote from a congressman who wanted to slash NASA’s budget. “Space isn’t important to America right now. It doesn’t touch a chord in our hearts. Not the way it used to.”
     She switched off the damning headlines and left the screen blank. “The goal of public relations is to create support for NASA and ultimately protect and increase the funding it receives. To do that, we need to make space relevant to the average American.”
     Did Stu Rosen just say that she’d be staying at the Cape for a while? Now that was relevant. Deke took another lingering glance at the way her skirt hugged her backside. Relevant and nice.
     “Ross & Clayton is the largest public relations firm in the world. We’ve spent a great deal of brainpower on the problem and we have a simple plan. It’s the oldest, and most effective, marketing technique in the world.” She paused and lit the room with that sexy smile again. “NASA is about to get some sex appeal.”
     The echo of his unprofessional thoughts jarred Deke out of his musings and he joined in the uncertain, nervous laughter of the audience.
     She clicked to a new slide, her magnificent eyes balancing her serious demeanor with a touch of humor. He didn’t know her qualifications and doubted she was thirty years old, but she’d obviously studied this sex appeal stuff pretty thoroughly.
     “I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that in a space suit, all astronauts look the same.” She paused for more laughter. “We propose to give NASA a face. An unforgettable, grab-at-your-heart kind of face.”
     You got one of those, sweetheart. Her heels clicked in rhythm as she crossed the stage, a sound as completely feminine as she was. “Then, we’re going to give NASA a personality. Engaging, attractive, and even a little mysterious. A personality that is the polar opposite of the staid, conservative, and stuffy reputation you are…” she said, teasing them with a wink, “enjoying right now.”
     She had them and she must have known it; a glimmer lit her eyes. “We’re going to change your image through one individual who will embody a new NASA.”
     The silence lasted just long enough to be slightly uncomfortable, and Deke wondered if he’d missed something that she said. He wasn’t paying nearly as much attention to her words as the occasional glimpse of cleavage he caught as she reached to her laptop to click on the next slide.
     “What is the sexiest thing about space?” she challenged, crossing her arms and damn, just deepening that enticing valley enough to truly distract him. “Astronauts. Daring, handsome, risk-taking, gravity-defying, reach-for-the-stars space cowboys.”
     Suddenly, the image of a man in a blue flight suit leaning against a Navy F-18 fighter jet filled the screen behind her. Deke tore his gaze from the presenter to the face on the wall.
     Familiar black hair that had been smashed by a helmet stuck to a forehead and touched the collar of the suit in the back. A hint of laughter teased the lips of the photo’s subject. Recognition numbed his senses as he stared at the screen.
     “Move over, Mel Gibson and make way, Russell Crowe. America’s about to fall in love with Commander Deke Stockard.” The audible gasp from nearly every person in the room punctuated her sentence and sucked all the air out of his lungs. “From his outstanding biography and obvious affinity for the camera, we’re confident that we can make Commander Stockard a household name and, in the process, make America swoon over space once again.”
     Each word detonated in his head like little unexpected grenades.
     “And just how the hell do you plan to do that?”
     At the sound of his question, her eyes flashed and she peered into the crowd, but she answered without missing a beat. “Although most of the world doesn’t know this, it’s a far more scientific process than you realize.”
     “Scientific?” he spat back, aware that heads had turned his way. “You’re in a room full of scientists.” Scientists having adolescent fantasies about cleavage, but scientists just the same. “You better explain exactly what you have in mind. Miss.”
     Just as he uttered the condescending final syllable, her gaze landed on him. She raised a cleft chin, giving him a clear shot of her throat as she took a long, hard swallow.
     “That’s an excellent question. Commander.” Her midnight eyes narrowed, as piercing as her laser pointer. “We do it through strategically placed photo ops and a blitz of TV and print coverage that keeps the public wanting more. We set him up on red carpets at movie premieres, side by side with celebrities. Then we make sure it all gets into Entertainment Weekly and on E! Television. We get him on Jay Leno. We drop candid photos on the wire services. We seat him in the front row of the seventh game of the NBA playoff finals.  It’s an orchestrated campaign. That’s what a great PR firm does.”
     Who the hell did she think she was, plastering his picture on that screen and making pronouncements about sex appeal?
     He started down the steps toward her. “We don’t go to NBA playoff games or movie premieres. We don’t seek celebrity status.” He let the disdain drop like bombs with every word and every step. “We are aviators and engineers and explorers. We develop experiments to advance medicine.” He paused as he reached the halfway mark, his gaze locked on his pretty target. “We send satellites into orbit to monitor terrorism.” He moved closer, purposely let his voice intensify with each step. “We fix billion-dollar telescopes so scientists can see into the past and the future.”
     At last, he stood on the same level, a few feet away from her, glad for the advantage of his height since she wore those stilts on her feet. “That’s what we do.” He leaned a closer so she’d inch away. She didn’t. “It doesn’t involve Jay Leno.”
     A spark lit her eyes, but he was blind now to her fiery appeal, furious with himself for admiring her physical assets while she was busy announcing that he’d become some sort of NASA poster boy.
     They stood face to face, the audience no doubt spellbound at the unexpected showdown. He waited for her to back down.
     But, son of a bitch, she just crossed her arms and took a step toward him.
     “Without tax dollars, Commander Stockard, there will be no experiments, no exploration and no telescopic views into the present or the past.” He could hear the tiniest shudder in her voice, but she held her ground and his gaze. “NASA has called in experts to reverse an extremely negative tide of public opinion. This is one tactic that hasn’t been tried and one we know can work.”           
     You are sorely mistaken, sweetheart. This tactic wasn’t going to work. Not with him. He finally broke their eye contact and brushed by her to leave the room.
     “Count me out, spin doctor.”